Such Stuff As Dreams Are Made On
by MLaw
Summary: There is a fine line that an U.N.C.L.E. agent walks, and what if their nightmares are what keeps them from crossing that line?   # 18  A Saga-series vignette.


The crunch of the snow beneath his feet was the only sound that was heard until the cawing of a single crow broke the silence as it flew into the air. The sky was dark and full of clouds that looked ready to burst with more snow at any moment. His escorts left him standing there, weak and barely able to remain upright; facing the squad of soldiers wearing uniforms that matched the color of the day.

The blond swayed a bit but managed to keep himself in place, though his hands were bound behind his back. He would at least have that dignity of standing on his own.

He looked at the Colonel, seeing the nod that was his signal to recite his well rehearsed speech.

"Я Илья Николаевич Kuryakin свободно признаем, что мои преступления, как изменник родины_I Illya Nickovich Kuryakin do freely admit to my crimes as a traitor to my homeland."

The mist from his breath filled the cold air in front of his face as a shiver overtook his poorly clothed and weakened body.

"For the last ten years I have served a foreign master and have denied providing information vital to the survival of Russia while embracing a bourgeois and decadent life style. I surrender...myself to the judgement of the people of the Soviet Socialist Republic. I am ready to suffer the consequences for my disloyalty and misdeeds."

The words that he had been forced to speak from his battered and bruised mouth left a bitter taste but what did that matter now. It was over.

Товарищ Kuryakin есть ли у вас больше ничего сказать в свое оправдание_Comrade Kuryakin do you have anything further to say for yourself?"

He remained emotionless as he held up his chin, displaying the only thing he had left to show, and that was his pride. Though he gave the speech as he had been instructed; he and they knew he did not mean what he said. And that ate at his captors like a piece of rotten meat in their bellies, because they had not really broken him.

They waited for a moment, but then when his silence was obvious; they began.

Вы здесь приговорен к смертной казни через расстрел_you are hereby sentenced to death by firing squad."

A soldier covered his head with a black bag as they bound his body to a pole in the middle of the prison yard looking so pristine with the covering of snow.

Готов.

His took deep breaths, trying to remain calm as the heard the sound of the rifles being readied. Their bolts being cocked echoed as the command was given, each one not quite in sync with the other.

The soldiers stood poised as the command to aim was called out.

Цель.

His breaths became fast and short as he prepared himself for the final command

Огонь!

The repeat of seven rifles cracked the air loudly when they were fired, and the body of Illya Kuryakin jerked as the bullets found their target. He grunted softly, then his head dropped forward. His body it fell limp in the embrace of the ropes that held him.

It was done.

Viktor Karkoff laughed, his voice resounding maniacally as the soldiers cut the body free, letting it drop down like a sack of potatoes; the red of his blood seeping into the white of the snow.

Yes, it was finally done. He had his revenge against Kuryakin at last.

.

Illya gasped as he woke, soaked in sweat, startling the petite red-head that slept beside him, waking her as well.

"Ye had that God-damned dream again didn't ye?" his wife said; her Irish accent stronger than usual.

Saying nothing as he rose from bed; he walked in the dark to the bathroom, feeling the coldness of the the tile floor on his feet as he switched on the light.

He turned on the faucet in the sink, splashing his face with cold water; his pale blue pajamas, nearly the color of his eyes were soaked with perspiration as he stripped them off, tossing them to the floor.

The Russian gazed at his face in the mirror, looking at the dark bruises on his mouth and chin that were finally turning to a greenish yellow.

Elliott walked past him, knowing what to do as she turned on the water in the white claw foot bathtub, running a warm bath for him, throwing Epsom Salts into it to soothe and relax his muscles.

"Well, get in with ye?" she said as he stood naked leaning against the sink.

Illya stepped into the tub, lowering himself with a sigh without a word. His wife used a washcloth to squeeze the mineral soaked water onto his tense shoulders and back, letting it run down his pale, scarred skin.

He finally laid his head back against her chest as she leaned in towards him wiping down his arms with the cloth.

"When will it ever stop?" he asked quietly, "The man is dead, yet he haunts me from the grave...they all do. How can that be? When will I ever be rid of them?"

"I don't know darlin'. I suppose we never really get rid of them; they're our sins, our burdens or perhaps they sit on our shoulders like guardian angels, set there to remind us of the thin line we walk...there for but the grace of God go I? We could so easily become like them?"

Illya reached up, touching her cheek with the back of his wet hand, stroking her gently.

"Oh that is such a line of bullshit." He made a face at her then clicked his tongue.

"Yeah, tis' but I figured I'd give it a try?" she giggled.

He grabbed her, dragging her down into the tub with him, pulling her into a lip lock while illustrating Archimedes theory of displacement as the water overflowed from the tub, splashing onto the white tile floor.

The two of them laughed and laughed hard, knowing that would drive the spectres away, sending them back into the darkness from whence they came, if only for another night.

These dreams, Illya supposed, were a small price to pay for the job he did and wondered for a moment if Elliott was right?

Lines from Shakespeare's _Tempest_ suddenly came to mind...

"Our revels now have ended, these our actors as foretold you were all spirits melted into thin air. And like the baseless fabric of this vision the cloud capped towers,the gorgeous palaces , the solemn temples the great globe it self. Yea all which is in heart shall dissolve and like the insubstantial pageant faded. Leave not a rack behind. We are such stuff as dreams are made on; and our little life is rounded with a sleep.


End file.
